In Which John Receives a Concussion
by zoltargirl
Summary: John is given a concussion whilst he and Sherlock chase after a killer. Sherlock comforts him. If you are offended by what is probably incorrect medical procedure then don't read this.


"John, are you okay?" Sherlock's nearly yelled as he slid to the warehouse floor next to John's still body. He ignored the writhing and moans of the bleeding criminal a yard or so away from him. John's eyes stayed closed, the bump rising almost visibly near the crown on his head.

Sherlock carefully leaned John's head back, and tilted his ear close to John's mouth. He held his own breath in wait, and breathed out a sigh of pure relief when warm air puffed out onto his cheek.

He took a second while John breathed to curse his mistake. Merely a few seconds earlier and he might have been able to distract the suspect long enough to stop butt of the pistol to come thundering down onto the crown of John's head. After that, he had fired a single bullet out of his own .9 before falling to the floor where John lay now. Sherlock mentally gave himself a shake. He had to focus.

"John, you need to wake up now," Sherlock shouted. "John!" Just then, John's eyes blinked groggily open, barely showing all the whites before hazily drifting closed again. "No no no no, John you need to stay awake right now." He seemed to want to listen to Sherlock, and his eyes opened halfway again.

"Sher-?" John's lips made the shape to finish the word, but the sound got lost somewhere along the way.

"It's possible you have a concussion. Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?" Sherlock placed his hands on the side of John's head, trying to hold him to consciousness.

"Somewhere outside of London... we were... we were chasing the... the suspect, uh, Smith. Fuck, my head hurts. Uh, he hit me with the gun... I guess I passed out? Christ," John's voice faded and he squeezed his eyes closed.

"Being a doctor, you should know that keeping your eyes open is a necessity right now. What's your full name?"

"John Hamish Watson. Sherlock what happened to Smith? Did he get away?" John's voice was only slightly slurred, but his eyes were open mostly so Sherlock took that as a good sign. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when he was interrupted by a pathetic moan that may have been some form of begging.

"SHUT UP, YOU BASTARDIZED EXCUSE FOR A HOMOSAPIEN!" Sherlock yelled, flicking his head up to bore his eyes into the back of the criminal. His eyes turned back to John, all harshness gone. The faint hint of a smile played at the corners of John's lips and eyes.

"What did you do to him?" Watson asked, wiggling his fingers and lifting his hands to head, trying to assess the damage. When his knuckles hit the bump, he winced visibly and Sherlock looked on rather guiltily.

"Simple bullet through the Achilles Tendon. It could have been cleaner, but I was rather preoccupied," Sherlock muttered, sparing another glance away from John. All shame disappeared from Sherlock's face and he looked almost proud at his good shot.

"Is he going to die, Sher?" John breathed, cringing again when his fingertips felt the hurt part of his head. Sherlock took both of the offending hands in his own, looking down at John and smiling mischievously.

"Maybe. Do you want him to?" Sherlock asked, eyes glinting mischievously. John coughed out a laugh, cutting it short when the feeling of a train smashing through his skull ruined the moment.

"Am I gonna die?" John muttered, more complaining about his headache than anything else. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to tell how much of the question was a joke.

"Honestly, John, killing him painfully wouldn't be much of a problem at all." John glared at him as effectively as he could when his eyes wouldn't focus completely and Sherlock's face seemed a little fuzzier than normal.

"I want to stand up," John said determinedly, gripping at Sherlock's coat sleeves and trying to remove himself from the cold concrete. They paused in their ascent about halfway when John felt the sloshing nausea echo around his stomach in sickening whoosh. "Okay just... Stop.. For a second. Just a..." he closed his eyes and loosened his grip on Sherlock's coat, slowly slipping down to the floor.  
"Okay maybe not right now," he said quietly after a moment. In the silence, another broken and sob-like moan echoed around the warehouse.  
"We need to take him to a hospital."

"Not necessarily."

"Sherlock."

"Fine." John could feel the disappointment in Sherlock rise and he sighed at John's decency. "Or-"

"We are not killing a man just because he smacked me, Sherlock. Now come on and help me get up. Really this time, we probably need to hurry and get him there," John insisted. Sherlock groaned pathetically.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's narrow shoulders, locking his own hands together. Sherlock did the same around the other's ribcage. "Ready?" John nodded against Holmes' shoulder, taking a deep breath.

Slowly and steadily, they rose, Sherlock supporting most of John's weight until they were completely vertical. John took a couple seconds to breathe and then looked up at Sherlock.

"How are we even going to get to the hospital what with you not being able to stand, and the purveyor of this incident nearly comatose. You know, if we let him become completely unconscious it will be much easier to transport him."

"I'm gonna throw up on you on purpose," John said petulantly.

"I'd rather you not, this is one of my favorite shirts."

"That's my shirt, wanker." Sherlock smiled as he pulled John flush with himself tapping a methodic, numbing, rhythm into John's shoulder blades.

"How about we compromise, I'll call an ambulance for the debris of a petri dish and take you to the hospital. Then we'll go home and I'll wake you up every few hours and make sure you've plenty of water and do all of the petty things the doctor calls for," Sherlock spoke softly into John's forehead.

"Fine, but you have to actually call the ambulance. In fact, just let me call them."

"Your lack of trust in me in phenomenal."

"Well, be honest, if I wasn't here to stop you, you would have killed him with your bare hands."

"You know me too well, John," Sherlock muttered into John's hairline.

"Yeah, I love you too, Sherlock," John leaned into Sherlock's shoulder, linking his arms around the taller one's waist.

fin.


End file.
